


The comfort of dreams

by captainhurricane



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Gen, just like the show itself, messy and chaotic and dreamlike
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-06-13
Packaged: 2018-04-04 04:59:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126248
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/captainhurricane/pseuds/captainhurricane
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I'm not haunted.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The comfort of dreams

**Author's Note:**

> SPOILERS for 3x02.

I’m not haunted, he claims to the man in his head. That man has Hannibal’s face and Hannibal’s voice but it’s Will himself and he knows it. 

Aren’t you? Answers Will with the devil’s face and devil’s horns, they protrude from his forehead, slicing the sick, dark air of the memory of Hannibal’s office. A twisted memory of another one of his visits to Hannibal in a time that seems oddly innocent now, in the light of recent events. 

I’m not, Will insists. He places his hands on his shaking knees. 

(Will)

The man in his head has not spoken, he fades into the dimly lit memory and leaves Will to his own devices, to the sounds of his stream sloshing back into his head. Making the pressure of Hannibal’s office disappear. 

(Will) 

I’m not haunted. Not by her, not by him, Will says and wavers when the fishing rod is in his hand. He doesn’t feel like fishing much but reality closes its teeth around his ankles and he doesn’t want it to return either. 

(Will) 

He grimaces, his hold on the rod tightening. She circles around him, to stand in front of him. His insides twist and turn at the sight of her blue eyes, the pain stuck around her thin mouth. The thin red line around her throat widens. 

“You should have,” she says and smiles brightly despite the blood-oozing wound that killed her (and keeps killing her in his head, over and over and over and over again). Will trembles. Will exhales. (Had he not heard the sound of porcelain shattering when he had hit the floor all those long months ago?)

Will inhales. Will exhales.

He’s alone in his hotel room overlooking the crime scene. He’s alone, fingers still curled around a fishing rod that was only in his head. 

“I should have done a lot of things, Abigail,” Will murmurs and sits down on the bed. It creaks under his weight, the pattern on its blankets faded and yellow. He swallows and kicks off his shoes, shrugs off his jacket and lays down on the bed. He curls up and closes his eyes but no sleep comes. The closed, scarring wound on his stomach throbs and Will winces. In certain times, it much feels like the searing pain returns, along with the memory of Hannibal’s dead, dead eyes.


End file.
